Private Moscow (Private 15)

I followed Dinara into an elevator and we went to the ninth floor. The corridor was deserted and when we got to Fisher’s apartment, we discovered it had been sealed by a temporary metal security door that was covered in warning signs and pad-locked to the wall.

“‘Moscow Police. Keep Out,’” Dinara read, reaching for her lock picks.

She pulled a couple of tiny tools from a neat leather case and opened the padlock in less than a minute.

“If they were serious about keeping people out, they’d buy better locks,” she said, pulling the door wide.

I hadn’t noticed it the day before, but the smell of stale alcohol hit me the moment we stepped inside the cold apartment. I closed the security door behind me and we moved further into Fisher’s home.

The place was otherwise as I remembered. It looked as though it had been turned over by someone in a rush. Books and papers were scattered everywhere and everything from clothes to cutlery had been strewn about the apartment. The only noticeable difference since our last visit was dark finger-print dust covering almost every smooth surface from the windowsills to the shelves.

“Why don’t I take the bedroom?” Dinara suggested.

“I’ll search in here,” I replied.

Dinara carefully picked her way through the mess and I watched her go into a dark corridor before I started my search.

We kept the lights off so we wouldn’t draw attention to our presence, and had to rely on ambient light from the city to illuminate the apartment. The gloom made the place seem even more tragic, and as I scoured the living room, I found evidence that Ernie Fisher might have been a big drinker. There were stains and spillages everywhere, and half-empty liquor bottles littered the floor.

We spent an hour carefully picking over the place, but I found nothing to link Ernie Fisher to Karl Parker, Elizabeth Connor or Robert Carlyle. Dinara emerged from the corridor, carrying a small suitcase.

“Anything?” she asked.

I shook my head. “You?”

“This was on the bed. It’s full of clothes and toiletries, like he was packing for a trip,” she replied. “But I can’t find a passport.”

“Maybe it’s at the embassy,” I suggested.

“Possibly.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just some empty vodka bottles under his bed.”

“Yeah, I think he had a drink problem.”

“A guilty conscience, perhaps,” Dinara suggested.

“Maybe,” I said. “I think we’re done here. Let’s go.”

We started for the door, but as I stepped over a small broken mirror, I caught the fractured reflection of something gold in the shattered pieces. I crouched down and followed the line of sight to discover a brass key strapped inside an armoire. The key was attached to the top of a compartment that would have housed one of three drawers scattered about the room.

“What is it?” Dinara asked.

I reached in and pulled at the tape that held it in place.

“A key,” I said as I stood up and showed her the tiny discovery.

CHAPTER 54

THE KEY DIDN’T fit anything in the apartment and we found nothing else of interest, so we left and caught a cab round the corner from Ernie Fisher’s place. Both of us sat in the back, and I watched the city roll by as we headed to the Residence.

“Is it much like America?” Dinara asked.

“You’ve never been, right?” I recalled her mentioning a desire to visit the US at our interview.

She shook her head. “London is my furthest west.”